


he, who clothed with transcendent brightness didst outshine myriads though bright

by larienelengasse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Resurrection, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larienelengasse/pseuds/larienelengasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We have to fall to know grace and to be reborn. Dean is tormented by both lost happiness and the prospect of enduring suffering. But neither adamantine chains nor penal fire, nor Satan's grasp can keep him from what he loves most, and that's Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Choice

Dean would like to forget. 

He would like to forget the image of his brother's soul borne to Hell in the grip of evil.

He would like to forget how Sam sacrificed himself so that he could defeat Lucifer.

He would like to forget the empty ache inside that nothing or no one can heal but Sam.

But he can't.

* * * *

“Dean.”

Dean blinked, his red-rimmed eyes opened slowly as he drew a rasping breath. “Sam,” he croaked.

“Wake up, Dean.”

He focused his gaze and saw Zachariah standing above him. 

“Wake and reap your reward.” The angel extended his hand.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asked as Zachariah pulled him to his feet. 

The angel didn’t answer him.

“Where the fuck is Sam!” he barked, and then he coughed as his lungs filled with clean air, air that felt foreign after the stench of death. “You have to get him out. I have to get him back!” He coughed again as he bent over, his raw lungs and throat rejecting fresh air, and he placed his hands on his knees. He felt like he’d been used as a punching bag.

“You served us well, Dean. You fulfilled your destiny. You vanquished Lucifer and have earned your reward. Enjoy it.”

“Enjoy what? Where am I? What is this?”

“We have granted your greatest wish. I was going to give you the two virgins and seventy sluts, but it seems that this is what you really want. Of course, it shouldn’t be a surprise.”

Dean wanted nothing more than to be able to wipe the smart-assed grin off of Zachariah's face. “Sam? Is Sam here? Wait. Where’s—”

Zachariah disappeared. 

“Goddammit!” 

He hated that bastard.

Dean heard the sound of the sea and smelled salt on the air. Gulls cried out and he heard the surf breaking on the rocks below. He was in a large house with floor to ceiling windows that faced the ocean. It had modern furnishings and expansive, open rooms. It looked like something from MTV's Cribs. He walked around slowly, checking out his surroundings, and then he entered a bedroom through a set of double doors. 

“Sam?” he called.

There on the bed lay his brother, sheets covering Sam’s lower body, his upper body was bare. Dean blinked and rubbed his eyes because he wasn’t just seeing Sam, he was seeing seventeen-year-old Sam. He looked just the way Dean remembered he did before he left for Stanford: long, floppy bangs, and leanly muscled, lanky limbs. 

“What the fuck?” Dean murmured to himself. “Sam?”

The Sam in the bed drew a deep breath and shifted on his stomach, one hand sliding out from beneath the pillow to the vacant side of the bed, as if he was looking for something, or expecting someone to be there. 

Dean approached quietly, and then knelt beside the bed so that he could get a closer look. It was Sam all right, just like he remembered. The Sam in the bed blinked slowly and opened his eyes, and then Dean was staring into their green-blue depths. Sam smiled, flashing dimples and white teeth and Dean swallowed a lump in his throat.

“Dean? You okay?” this Sam asked, his smile fading.

“Sammy?”

“Last I checked. You were expecting someone else?”

“I don’t . . . I…”

“Dean? Hey, what happened to you? You look like you’ve been in a fight.” Sam pushed himself up and began to turn over as Dean stood quickly. 

This Sam was naked. Dean backed up a couple of steps.

“I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay. You’re all beat up… Holy shit, Dean! You’ve got blood all over you,” Sam said as he began to climb out. “Let me—”

“Whoa! Uh, put something on, Sam.”

Sam looked at him strangely. “What?”

“Put something on, dude. You’re in your birthday suit.”

“So?”

“Just . . . just put something on.”

Sam frowned and grabbed a pair of briefs off the floor and pulled them on under the covers. “Dean, what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I just don’t want to watch my little brother traipse around naked, that’s all.”

“Since when?” Sam smiled – it was a mixture between sweet and sensual. “I thought naked was how you liked—”

Dean put his hands up and shook his head and started to leave the bedroom. “This is a hundred different kinds of fucked up,” he muttered. “Cas!” he shouted as he stepped back into the living room.

“Dean?” Sam began to follow. “What is going on? What’s wrong with you? You said you were going out for coffee and then you come back and you’re covered in dirt and ash and your clothes are bloody—”

“Just give me a minute, Sam!” Dean barked.

Sam froze and blinked. “Uh, okay.”

“Cas! Dammit, what in the Hell is going on here?”

“Who’s Cas?” Sam asked.

“Cas. Castiel . . . never mind. CAS!” But no answer came from his angelic friend.

Sam took Dean’s hand. “Dean, you’re scaring me here, man.”

He looked at this version of Sam, one that came from his memories, one that had occupied more than one guilty dream in Dean’s youth, and if he were honest, his adulthood too. He looked so earnest, so like his Sam. 

But the real Sam was being tortured in Hell while he held hands with a memory. 

“Please, let me just be sure you’re okay. Please.”

Dean allowed this Sam to lead him into the bathroom where he stood motionless, beaten down, afraid for the brother he’d swore to protect – for the brother he’d lost. He’d died and gone to Hell once and still he failed to protect Sam. He’d never felt so worthless.

This Sam slowly peeled off his button-down, then reached around and tucked the amulet inside his t-shirt and pulled the soiled cotton over his head. This Sam thoroughly and gently checked him for injuries, washing away the dried blood with a warm washcloth. There wasn't a mark on him, not even Castiel's handprint.

“I don’t understand,” Sam said. “You’ve got blood all over you but you’re not hurt.”

It was all so familiar, the way this Sam touched him so carefully, the way he chewed his lower lip as he went about his work, his brow furrowed as he concentrated. 

“I don’t see anything. Whose blood is that, Dean?”

“I don’t remember,” Dean answered. It was a lie of course, but so was everything else right now. It seemed the angels saw fit to heal him but not to clean him up.

“You don’t remember? Dean, this could be . . . You need to remember, man.”

“Let it go, Sam.”

Sam frowned, then stepped inside the huge shower and turned on the water, testing the temperature with his long fingers before gently ordering Dean to sit on the toilet so he could unlace his boots. 

“We’ll get you cleaned up and fed, then I think you should rest,” Sam said. 

Dean watched him, numb, exhausted, shaken to his foundations.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?” 

Sam looked up, tossing his head to the side to get the bangs out of his face as he reached for the snaps on Dean’s jeans.

“You notice anything different about me?” Dean wondered if Sam saw the way he’d changed. It wasn’t just everything he’d been through – he was now nine years older than this Sam would remember. He was thirty years old, not twenty-one.

“Just that you look tired,” Sam said. “And something’s got you really upset. I wish you’d tell me what it is. What happened, Dean?”

“Where’s Dad?”

“You know where he is.”

“No, I don’t.”

“He’s off with Caleb, after something he won’t talk about, like usual.”

“Where are we?”

Sam frowned. “Did you whack your head or something?” He set to checking Dean’s head.

Dean batted Sam’s hands away. “Just tell me where we are.”

“It belongs to some friend of Dad’s – some lady he knows. I think he saved her son, or something. Dean, you know all this. Why are you—”

“Nothing. Never mind.” He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I got it from here.”

Sam frowned, then stood up and left Dean alone.

Dean shucked his jeans and briefs and stepped into the cavernous shower, letting the warm water wash away the ash and caked blood. He tilted his face into the stream, eyes closed, tears mingling with the water from the shower. He didn’t hear this younger Sam step in, and he jumped when he felt his hands on his back.

“Let me take care of you, Dean.”

“Sam…” Dean’s voice was barely a broken whisper.

Sam wrapped his long arms around Dean’s waist and leaned his head on the back of Dean’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen you like this. Something has happened and you’re scaring me. Just let me…” Sam slowly turned Dean to face him. “Just let me…”

Dean felt Sam’s long fingers cradle the back of his head and he couldn’t stop looking at him – this Sam that was so good, that somehow remained hopeful and believed in what was right, believed in the good in the world; this Sam that had not been touched by the knowledge of the demon blood inside him, that had not been touched by so much death and grief. This version of Sam, his Sam, the memory that he had held onto in the years since he had got him back from Stanford, especially in those last dark months with Ruby, before Sam had… 

This Sam was comforting Dean, and, God forgive him, Dean let him do it.

“Sammy,” he whispered.

Sam smiled gently and pressed his forehead against Dean’s and said, “It’s all going to be okay, Dean. As long as we have each other, it’s all going to be okay.”

Dean let Sam kiss him softly on the lips, then cradle his head on his shoulder. Dean wrapped his arms around this Sam, this memory that he loved so very much, and silently wept for what he had lost.

* * * *

Dean looked at himself in the mirror. He half expected that he’d be younger, but he wasn’t. He still had the beginnings of crow’s feet around his eyes and his forehead was also beginning to crease. There wasn't a fresh mark on him, but the scars from past battles were still there. He remembered what Bobby once told him: What the mind believes the body makes manifest. He knew himself to be older, so that is what he saw when he looked in the mirror.

His young Sam’s reflection appeared in the mirror, peeking in through the doorway. He was dressed in loose, faded jeans and nothing else. There was something about his lean, naked chest and bare feet that made Dean's stomach quiver with nervous excitement.

“You know the story of Narcissus?” Sam asked.

“Shut up.”

Sam smirked. “There’s beer in the fridge and I thought I’d cue up some burgers. Sound good?”   
“Yeah, sounds good. Hey, Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

“Come ‘ere.”

Sam stepped inside the bathroom. “What?”

“You see anything different about me?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything. Look at my face.”

Sam sat on the counter and took Dean’s face in his hands, donning an overly serious expression as he looked at him. 

“I’m serious, dude.”

“Okay, sorry.” Sam looked at him thoughtfully. “Well, you do look a little tired.”

“You see any wrinkles?”

Sam snorted. “Jesus, Dean. When did you get so vain? Next you’ll be asking me to look for grey hair.”

“Sam, come on, man. I’m serious.”

“So am I. You look just like you did yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Now come on. I think you need a drink.” He hopped down off of the counter.

Dean couldn’t make sense of it. He knew he looked different than this Sam would remember, but this Sam couldn’t see it. Sam took his hand and led him into the kitchen.

* * * *

Dean closed his eyes as his body sank into the mattress. The sheets were soft and cool on his skin and a breeze carried clean, ocean air into the bedroom. He could hear Sam loading the dishwasher in the other room, and a basketball game was on the big screen TV. His mind wandered.

Zachariah had told him that this was his reward for sending Lucifer back into the pit. Since when did God reward faithful service by setting up shop for Dean to have an incestuous relationship with his little brother, especially when said little brother isn’t even of age and he’s now well into adulthood himself? It didn’t make sense. But then again, Zachariah didn’t make sense; he never had. Dean didn’t trust Zachariah any further than he could toss him, and he wondered who was really in charge up there anyway.

He had to figure out something. He had to figure out where he was and how to get the real Sam out of the pit, and pronto. He began ticking off his options when he finally fell asleep.

* * * *

Dean used to dream about Hell, about Alastair and the rack, about how he was tortured, and most of all how he carved and tormented the souls put before him after Alastair finally broke him. He still dreamt about Hell, but now he dreamt of Sam down there, suffering as he suffered, suffering because he gave himself to help Dean fulfill his destiny, to save Dean and to save the world. Alastair’s cruelty had been without measure; he could only imagine what Lucifer’s was like.

Dean drew a deep breath as he woke, almost swearing he could feel the heat and smell the stench of sulphur and burning flesh. Upon opening his eyes he found his young Sam wrapped around him, naked, legs entwined with his own. This Sam’s face was tucked into the crook of Dean’s neck and shoulder. 

Jesus he was hard, and so was Sam. This was the manifestation of every incestuous dream he’d ever had about his brother. Those dreams had stayed with him most every day of his life, from the time Sam hit puberty right up until his deal came due and the Hellhound dragged him into the pit, and then they were used to torment and humiliate him, because there are no secrets in Hell. 

“Sam,” he whispered. It was more a call to the brother he lost than the brother he held now, but this memory wrapped around him responded nonetheless.

This Sam’s hand slid down Dean’s torso and cupped his hard dick through the cotton of his briefs. 

“Mmm, Dean,” Sam murmured, then rolled his hips, rubbing his own hard cock against Dean’s hip. A sweetly wicked smile curved Sam’s lips and he began kissing his way down Dean’s chest. “Whatcha got for me this morning?” Sam murmured.

“Sam. Sam. Sam, you gotta… Oh, God.”

Sam’s mouth was apparently good for things other than backtalk, as Dean rapidly discovered. Sam mouthed Dean’s cock through his cotton briefs. Dean could feel his warm, wet breath through the material.

“Sammy, please…”

“You don’t have to beg me, bro. I love sucking your dick.”

Long fingers deftly slid his briefs down his hips and thighs, then off his legs. Dean saw them sail through the air and land on the corner of the dresser.

“Fuck!” Dean ground out as Sam drew his tongue up his length. “Sam this . . . we . . . oh, holy shit.”

Young Sam swallowed him down, drawing him in and then sliding his lips up and down, his long fingers accommodating what he couldn’t readily take into his mouth. 

Dean was weak. He’d be the first to admit that. But even he didn’t think that when it came right down to it that he’d let Sam, whether this Sam or the real one, ever do this. Yet, it was happening, and God forgive him, he reveled in it. 

He grasped Sam’s head at the back, fingers knotting in his longish brown hair, just a little pressure on the down stroke, but not enough to force anything. Sam had shifted and was now lying between Dean’s legs, hips rolling as he rutted against the mattress, his long fingers grasping the tops of Dean’s thighs as Dean fucked his mouth in shallow thrusts. Dean knew he should stop but he couldn’t - it was all too much, it felt too good.

Then Sam stopped, abruptly pulling off and Dean groaned. Sam reached across and opened a drawer in the bedside table. Without a word, Sam squeezed lube down Dean’s length then quickly slid two slick fingers up his own ass. 

“Sam…” Dean began, but Sam grabbed Dean’s jaw and planted a possessive kiss on him. 

Then Sam climbed into Dean’s lap, and before Dean could further protest, he was enveloped by his brother’s hot, tight body. 

“Ah, God,” Dean groaned. Fuck it felt so good. Sam rode him, hands grasping the headboard, thighs flexing, hips rolling and circling as he rose and sank. Dean’s hands flew to Sam’s hips, grasping him tight as he thrust up inside, guiding Sam up and down his length, and Sam kissed him again, their moans and grunts of pleasure filling the space between them. 

“Fuck, yes, Dean,” Sam moaned. “God I love how you fuck me, how you fill me up, how you make me yours. I’m yours, Dean. Always have been, always will be.”

“Sammy,” Dean groaned. He felt like he was coming apart inside. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be doing this but he couldn’t stop. Not now, not with Sam begging him to fuck him harder, faster, with this Sam writhing on his lap and whispering the filthiest things he’d ever heard in his ear. 

He grasped Sam’s thighs and pulled them up, withdrawing only long enough to flip Sam to his back, gather up his brother’s long legs, and enter him again.

“God I love your cock, Dean,” Sam breathed as Dean thrust forward. “So good, make me feel so good…”

“Sam. Sam…” Dean grabbed Sam’s jaw and held it. He looked into Sam’s dark eyes, pupils blown, lips swollen from kissing, face flushed and sweat beading on his forehead and neck. “Sammy,” he whispered.

Sam smiled and chewed his lower lip, then pressed his forehead to Dean’s.

“So good, oh God, so good, Dean. There, right there…” Sam growled and dove in for another kiss.

Dean fisted Sam’s hair and plundered his mouth, gripping Sam’s wrists and holding them above his head with his free hand. Sam’s knees were wrapped over his shoulders, his breath hot on Dean’s mouth. Dean wanted this to go on forever, the sounds, the feel, the scent of Sam all around him, wiping it all away, wiping all of the pain and every bad memory away.

Sam came first, a broken cry shook loose from him as he shot all over both his chest and Dean’s and Dean fucked him harder, as hard as he could, making the bed rattle and the iron headboard smack the wall. When Dean came, he came with a shout, Sam’s name carried out to the sea on the breeze, then he collapsed on Sam, Sam’s long legs sliding off his shoulders and wrapping around his waist. 

“Sam?” Dean whispered hoarsely. “Sammy, you okay?”

Sam turned his head and opened his eyes, then smiled lazily at Dean before kissing him. “My ass is gonna be sore, but I’m more than okay,” he murmured against Dean’s lips. “That’s one thing you aren’t bullshitting about,” he said quietly.

“What?” Dean asked, frowning.

“You are a monster stud in the sack.”

Dean laughed despite himself, dropping his head to Sam’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his young Sam.

* * * *

Dean’s eyes darted left to right as they walked down the quaint little street that was populated with art galleries and boutiques and gourmet food shops. People walked their dogs, ate at bistros, carried Starbucks cups and shopping bags with names like Hermes and D&G, and drove by in their convertible Mercedes Benz, totally oblivious to the fact that the apocalypse had just been narrowly averted, that all this would have been destroyed by fire and horror beyond imagining.

This was a far cry from their usual haunts but that wasn’t what concerned Dean. This didn’t look like the afterlife, it looked like real life, and no one seemed to take notice of the thirty year old man dressed in faded, tattered jeans, motorcycle boots and a black t-shirt, who walked along with a seventeen-year-old boy who licked an ice cream cone and had his hand in shoved in the older man’s back pocket. 

Sam offered his cone to Dean once again. Dean shook his head.

“Relax, man,” Sam said softly. “These people don’t care about you and me. They don’t even see us. It’s not like they know us or anything. We’re cool.”

“Don’t they notice how….”

“What?”

“How much older I am?” Dean said quietly. “I mean, don’t they think this is….”

“You’re not that much older than me, dude. I know you like to think you are, but you’re not. Just chill out and enjoy this. This is the first real vacation we’ve ever had. Besides, it’s my birthday, sort of.”

“It is?”

“Jerk. I knew you forgot.”

Dean stopped at a newspaper box and peered in.

May 3rd, 2000. 

What in the Hell? he thought. So, he had been transported back in time nine years. Was this real? Was this really Sam? Or was this all some sort of grand illusion, as the song said.

“Come on,” Sam said. “Let’s go back to the house. I feel like going for a swim and you need to make this up to me.” He popped the last of his nibbled-down cone in his mouth.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean said absently, his mind still turning round, trying to figure everything out.

Sam smiled and nuzzled Dean’s mouth before kissing him soundly in front of God and everyone. Dean’s hands slid down Sam’s back, coming to rest at the tops of his faded, loose jeans as he licked the taste of Cold Stone Creamery Oreo Overload ice cream from inside Sam’s mouth. 

“Mmm… well, you’ll get to apologize properly when we get home,” Sam said low, his voice full of wanton promise as his hands caressed the flesh of Dean’s waist beneath his t-shirt.

Dean swallowed and looked around. No one seemed to notice that they just made out on the street corner. 

No one seemed to notice them at all.

* * * *

Three weeks. He had been in this new world for three weeks, and with every day that went by he grew more comfortable with it. He stood on the front step, coffee in one hand, looking at the newspaper that was in the other.

May 17th, 2000. 

It hit him suddenly. Sam had been in Hell for three weeks, which would feel more like almost ten years. Dean closed his eyes; his mind was spinning.

What the fuck was he doing here? Where was here? How could he have forgotten about Sam for even one minute? Where was Cas or Zachariah? They had dumped him here and disappeared. Was Sam really in Hell? Had the angels turned time back? Maybe that was it. Maybe this was like a do-over. They’d definitely earned a do-over.

Dean closed the door behind him and crossed into the living room. Sam was swimming in the pool inside the large atrium. He was floating on his back with his eyes closed.

Dean watched Sam. If this really was a do-over, then why did he still look like he did before he came here? Although, he had noticed that his skin seemed smoother lately, but Sam said it was the salt-water from the pool that did it. If the angels turned time back, then why didn’t he look like he was twenty-one years old? Or maybe he was starting to grow younger. If he was, Sam didn’t seem to notice. None of it made sense.

No. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening to him. Things like this never happened to him.

“Dean?”

Dean opened his eyes and Sam was standing in front of him, dripping on the slate floor. 

“Sammy?” Dean said quietly.

“You okay, Dean?” Sam asked.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

Sam pressed up against him and nuzzled his ear. “You’re okay. It’s all okay,” he whispered. He slid his hands inside Dean’s robe, over the bare skin of his waist and back.

It would be so easy to just accept it, to close his eyes and fall into this Sam, to have what he’d always wanted. To have Sam safe, and happy. No more deals, no more demons, no more looking over their shoulders or waiting for something horrible to happen. Just this. Just the feel of Sam wrapped around him. 

Dean turned his head and pressed his lips to Sam’s shoulder.

Just the feel of Sam, the taste of salt water on his skin.

Sam arched against him and ran his fingers into his hair.

Just Sam touching him, holding him, kissing him. Just Sam safe, whole and happy, and his. Just Sam with him, forever. It was all he had ever wanted.

“Come on,” Sam whispered in his ear, his voice deep and soft, like silk and honey. 

“Where are we going?” Dean asked quietly.

“Outside, on the patio.”

This young Sam led him outside to where the sun shown bright and gulls drifted on the currents above them. The bright blue sea roared and crashed below them and Sam pushed him down to the wide, white, cushioned chaise. Sam straddled his legs and began sliding the robe off of his shoulders. 

“You’re too pale. You need some sun,” Sam said.

Dean sat up as the robe slid off, then laid back and lifted his hips as Sam pulled his boxers off his legs. Dean watched as Sam followed suit, removing his swimming trunks, and then crawling onto the chaise next to Dean.

Dean ran his hand down Sam’s long leg, pausing to run his thumb over the jagged scar on his knee. Dean remembered that scar well.

“You’ve had to work so hard all your life,” Sam said. “You don’t know how to relax, man. We’ve got months to hang out in this insane house, go to the beach, sleep in late….” 

Sam was doing things to Dean’s ear that went straight to his dick.

“…fuck each other stupid. How often do we get a chance like this?” Sam whispered.

Dean grabbed Sam and hauled him in to his lap. “Not often enough,” he said, grabbing handfuls of Sam’s ass as he pillaged his brother’s mouth.

 

* * * *

Dean woke with a jolt, sitting straight up in bed as his pulse pounded in his ears. The full moon made their room glow pale sliver.

He hadn’t dreamt of Hell in a while, not since the first night in this place.

He bolted out of bed, hearing his young Sam calling to him as he staggered into the bathroom and threw up. He kept hearing Sam’s voice. It was here in the room with him, at the bathroom door, asking him if he was okay. It was also in his mind, screaming in agony, begging for help. 

Dean turned on the shower and climbed inside, cold water rushing over bare skin as his young Sam, his memory, knocked on the bathroom door. He felt like he was going mad. This was all wrong, no matter how much he wanted it, it was all so very wrong. And he had been so close to accepting it and abandoning his real brother.

“Dean!” 

Young Sam was pounding on the door now, and the real Sam was calling out to him for help in his mind. 

“I’m okay, Sam,” he called, his voice sounding anything but okay. “Go back to bed, I’ll be out in a minute.”

Sam left the bathroom door and Dean slid to the floor of the shower and began to weep.


	2. Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes his choice and worries about the consequences

Dean’s eyes snapped open - Castiel was standing beside the bed. Sam was wrapped around him again.

“Cas?”

“Dean.”

Dean carefully extracted himself from Sam’s arms and sat up. “I have to get Sam out. You have to help me.”

“You have Sam,” Cas said. “He is there beside you.”

“That’s not really him,” Dean answered. “You know the truth. Lucifer has him; I have to get him back. It wasn’t his fault, Cas. He didn’t know. He thought he was doing the right thing—”

“That is really Sam. He is as much Sam as the Sam you saw die. They both exist—”

“No, no. He’s down there; I feel it. I can hear him. Come on, Cas. You’ve got to help me. I did everything you asked.”

Castiel sighed. “What we did, Dean. Defying Zachariah – there was a price to pay for that. I cannot—”

“Goddammit, Cas! This is wrong and you know it. You know Sam did what he did to save me. He thought he was saving the world from the apocalypse. He never would have gone that far with Ruby, not if he knew the truth.”

“Sam was deceived, this is true. But—”

“Are you telling me that you think he deserves to suffer for all eternity in Hell because he was deceived? Is that what God thinks? Is this God’s mercy?”

“God looked into your heart and saw what you wanted most. He saw—”

“God’s reward to me is allowing incest?”

“He saw how much you loved Sam. This is the Sam that you’ve always wanted. This Sam will never leave you, will always look up to you and trust you, he will always be with you, always love you. This is what you wanted in your heart of hearts, and God gave it to you because you saved what He loves most.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“His creations, His children. You saved the world and you saved humanity, Dean. Nothing is more precious to Him than that.”

“If I did something so great, then God should reward me by giving me what I want more than anything else, and that’s Sam, out of the pit. I saved what was most precious to God, now God has to save what is most precious to me.”

“You cannot have them both. They cannot both exist on the same plane. You must sacrifice one for the other. If I bring that Sam back, this one must fade.”

“Dean?”

Dean turned and saw his young Sam looking at him so earnestly. Dean gently pushed the bangs out of Sam’s face. This Sam really didn’t know. This Sam thought this was real. 

“What’s going on, Dean?”

“Dean, you must choose.”

Dean looked at his young Sam, who took no notice of Castiel. He was so optimistic and peaceful, so very, very beautiful and happy. “I’m sorry, Sammy,” he said quietly. Sam deserved to be like this, more than anyone Dean knew. But this was not real, no matter how much Dean wished it was.

“For what? Dean? What’s going on?”

Dean took Sam’s face in his hands and kissed him once. “I love you, Sammy. I’m always going to love you, no matter what. I’m always going to remember you just like this.”

“Dean, you’re scaring me.”

Sam started to fade before his eyes. 

“Dean? What’s happening to me? Dean? Dean!” 

The young Sam was gone. Dean felt tears roll down his cheeks and he closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath and said, “Now get him out of there.” He turned and Castiel was gone.

* * * *

Sam woke with a pained gasp, lashing out at the pillows and blankets on the cheap motel room bed. Dean came rushing into the room with a glass of water in his hand; he’d been waiting for Sam to wake up for almost 24 hours. 

“No!” was the first word from Sam’s mouth, and then he fell as he scrambled out of the bed.

He was wild-eyed; his pupils blown and sweat beading on his forehead, his voice rough. Dean remembered what he felt like when he woke in the coffin, but this was worse, so much worse. 

“Sammy,” he began.

“No! Get away from me! You’re not him; you’re not him! You’re not Dean!”

“Sam. It’s me. It’s really me.”

Sam covered his ears and backed into the corner. His back hit the wall and he slid down, cowering. Dean had never seen Sam this way and it scared him more than anything ever had before.

“Get away, get away from me…”

“Sammy, it’s me. I promise.” He knelt down in the floor and spoke softly. “When you were twelve you cut your knee on a piece of rusty bailing wire when you jumped out of a hayloft that was filled with pixies. I had to stitch it myself and you got mad at me because I put the stitches in crooked. Remember?”

Dean remembered well. He had caressed that scar just two days ago.

Sam shook his head and hid his face. “Get out of my head! Stop stealing my memories!” he shouted.

Dean couldn’t stop his own tears from falling. What had been done to him was bad enough, but this….

Dean reached out slowly and touched Sam’s knee and Sam flinched and kicked out at him. “It’s me, Sam. Cas pulled you out. It’s me, look….” He pulled up his shirtsleeve and showed Sam the handprint on his shoulder. It had returned when Dean came back to reality.

“Liar! This isn’t real, it’s not real….”

Dean flopped to the floor and leaned back against the bed as he watched Sam turn away from him and curl into himself. “Sammy,” he said softly.

Dean sat on the floor and watched Sam rock back and forth like a frightened child. Eventually, Sam quieted and the rocking ceased, but he was still curled in a ball. Dean could see bright, angry red marks on Sam’s back, just barely showing beneath his t-shirt.

Bobby's words echoed in Dean's head and that's when Dean realized what was happening to Sam: The mind can make a Heaven of Hell and a Hell of Heaven.

Sam believed he was still in Hell, and those were Lucifer’s marks on his skin.

Rage built inside Dean. It was a dark, threatening rage at what Lucifer had done to his brother. No one hurt Sam; no one marked his brother like that and got away with it. He had half a mind to march back into Hell and kill him all over again, if he could figure out how to do it. He could kill the bastard a thousand times and it would never be enough to slake his rage at what he had done to Sam. No one took what was Dean's.

Sam was broken: he was a frightened, confused, half-insane shell of himself and Dean had no idea what to do. The more he reached out to Sam, the worse it got, so he resigned himself to waiting it out. Maybe, if things didn’t change, and Sam didn’t get hurt, he’d start to believe that he was really out and free.

He leaned his head back against the mattress and dozed in and out for a few hours. Finally, when he couldn't stay awake any longer, he fell asleep.

* * * *

Half-crazy with fear, Sam peeked out from beneath his arms and saw what he believed to be Satan, wearing his brother’s form, asleep. It was always so much worse when he took Dean’s shape, and he had been doing that more and more. 

Sam didn’t know what to do. Did he try to escape? That was stupid - you can’t escape Hell. Did he just wait to be beaten and tortured and have all manner of unspeakable things done to him? It was so much worse when Lucifer looked like Dean, when he sounded like Dean; but he never felt like Dean, he was always cold, so cold and hard. Sam shivered violently and felt his stomach lurch. What choice did he have? He couldn’t kill Satan, not here, not in Hell.

The room hadn’t changed. It was so much more real this time, which scared Sam all the more. Right down to the ugly olive green shag carpet and floral wallpaper, it looked like every piece of shit motel room they’d ever stayed in. The sounds were real and this time he couldn’t hear the screams of tortured souls beneath the trucks and cars and people outside. 

No. No point in running when he’d just end up right back here. No point in trying to kill Lucifer, because he couldn’t, even though he’d tried a hundred times already. His powers failed him; he had nothing left. There was nothing left for him but to suffer.

Hours passed in the same fashion, nothing changing, Lucifer sleeping and wearing Dean’s form. Sam had never seen him sleep. It crossed his mind that it was another trick - that he’d make Sam believe he was safe then start in on him again. Still, it did seem real in a way that it never had before.

Sam reached out slowly when he suddenly felt the weight of his body and he collapsed to the floor. He felt weak. This was new. He hadn’t felt his body in a long time. His arm ached and burned. He lifted his shirtsleeve and saw it - a raised, bright purplish-red handprint that looked just like the one on Dean’s shoulder.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. The air was real, his body was real, this was real. Not even Lucifer could fake that mark, not like that.

He reached out and grasped the leg of Dean’s jeans. Dean woke up.

“Sam?” he said, his voice rough with sleep. “Sammy, what happened?” he leaned forward and helped Sam up to his hands and knees.

“Dean, it’s really you. It’s really you,” Sam said, practically climbing into Dean’s lap. 

Any other time Dean wouldn’t let the sheer ludicrousness of his six-foot-three-inch, one-hundred-ninety pound brother climbing into his lap like a toddler go by without a wise-ass remark, but he was so relieved to have Sam back that he really didn’t care.

“Yeah, Sammy. It’s really me,” he said, wrapping his arms around Sam and holding him as best as he could given Sam’s size.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, afraid that at any minute he’d change. But he didn’t. He was warm and his skin soft. Sam could feel Dean’s heart beating against his chest, could feel the warmth of his breath on his neck. It was really Dean.

Dean just held Sam tight. Sam picked up his brother’s amulet and turned it in his fingers. He lifted the collar of his shirt and ran his finger over Dean’s protective tattoo. Dean allowed Sam his child-like exploration. He didn’t speak; he just held Sam and let Sam touch his fill.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt a sense of calm. It wouldn’t be easy – Sam had to recover from what he’d been through – but for the first time in a long time Dean felt like he was in charge again, and that he’d keep Sam safe, no matter what.

* * * *

Bobby found them a place to stay. It was a fishing cabin in the north woods of Minnesota, near Vermillion Lake. There were a few people around, but not many, and neither Dean nor Bobby had seen any sign of demons since Dean sent Lucifer back to the pit. They knew they were still around, but they had gone deep underground to hide from the forces of Heaven.

The cabin was secluded, which was exactly what Sam needed. His nerves were raw and he wasn’t sleeping. The hallucinations and auditory memories had faded over the weeks, but the dreams were vivid and Dean wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to Sam waking up in a cold sweat or screaming in the middle of the night. 

Sam wasn’t telling him what happened, and Dean understood. Talking about it only made it worse. Sam looked drawn, haggard – he had lost weight and was pale with dark circles under his eyes. He drank himself to sleep every night. Dean understood that too. For the first time in their lives, Dean understood Sam in a real way. He’d been there; he knew what it was like to survive Hell. 

All this said, Sam was better, and getting better still, slowly. Sam wanted to keep hunting, but he was too far off his game. Dean told him he needed to get his strength back, gain weight, go back to training first. So they sparred during the day, Dean taking it easy on him and Sam getting pissed off about it. They went for runs in the woods, Sam did research on the Internet, and Dean shoveled as much food into Sam as Sam could take.

A couple of months of this had almost returned Sam to his former vigor. Dean wondered if the demon blood was still inside him; if it was, Sam wasn’t saying. 

Dean sat on a dock that looked a lot like one he had seen in a dream once. Summer was in full swing and there was all manner of waterfowl on the lake. He reached inside the cooler beside him and drew out a cold beer. The float on his lure bobbed slowly in the water and he could hear birds and insects buzzing round. The smell of bug repellent gave him a strange sense of calm that was something like normalcy. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d been fishing in his life - it seemed there had never been time for such a luxury. He heard Sam’s soft footsteps behind him and he smiled. 

“The day’s not come that you could sneak up on me, Sam,” Dean said.

Sam shrugged and swatted at a mosquito on the back of his neck. “Can’t hurt to try.” Sam looked into the empty pail next to Dean. “Nothing yet?”

“Patience, Sam. Fishing takes patience.”

“My stomach’s not feeling too patient.”

“Since when did you turn into such a chow hound?”

“Since you made me run up the ridge and back this morning.”

“Yeah, that was an ass-kicker, wasn’t it?”

“Your idea.”

Sam sat on the dock beside Dean and swatted at another mosquito.

“Cutter’s in the bag. Put it on so you don’t get eaten up.”

Sam reached in and retrieved the spray and coated his arms and neck. He put it back then pulled the last beer out of the cooler. 

“Looks like we need to make another supply run.”

“Yep.”

“I haven’t found anything.”

“What?”

“To hunt. I haven’t found anything.”

“Something will come up sooner or later.”

“Since when have you been so . . . accepting? Normally you’d be climbing out of your skin with boredom by now.”

“Well, maybe I’ve had my fill of excitement. I mean, it’s hard to top sending Lucifer to Hell.”

Sam huffed. “You always were one to downplay things.”

Dean grinned. He glanced sideways at Sam. “How are you, you know, doing?”

Sam shrugged. “It’s relative, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve been better, and I’ve definitely been worse.”

“Right.”

“What about you?”

“Right now? Pretty well, I’d say. But like you just said, it’s relative. I’ve got what I want.”

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a while. Dean had always appreciated how they could just be together. Sure, Sam was the one that had a usually had a need for conversation, but once he let it go, Dean really liked how they could just sit beside one another. Although, he had to admit that the last months before Sam’s death and subsequent resurrection had been way too quiet for his taste.

Dean’s lure bobbed once, twice then dipped below the surface. 

“You’ve got one!” Sam exclaimed.

His brother’s enthusiasm took Dean a little by surprise, and he gained his feet and began reeling the fish in. “It’s a fighter.”

“It’s friggin’ huge,” Sam said leaning over and scooping it up in the net. “Looks like a trout.”

“Dinner’s gonna be good tonight, Sammy.”

Sam smiled as Dean removed the hook from the fish’s mouth. Dean froze. It was the first time Sam had smiled since he came back. Dean wiped his face with his arm, quickly sweeping away the tears in the guise of wiping sweat from his brow. He’d missed Sam’s smile, so much.

Sam broke the fish’s back, making sure it was dead before he laid it on ice as Dean packed up his gear. “Now we gotta clean it,” he said.

“That’s your job. I caught it, you clean it.”

Sam wrinkled his nose then closed the cooler. 

“You remember how?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, I’ve helped Bobby clean more than one fish, you know.” 

Dean smiled and folded up his chair. “Come on. We’ve gotta head down to the store before dinner.” Sam followed him back to the house, carrying the cooler with the fish.

* * * *

Sam downed a glass of water and picked up the knife. In a smooth motion, he gutted the fish, then skinned it, then removed its head and the blood vein, and washed it off. Dean offered him a beer and he shook his head, washing his hands and setting to work on a marinade of lemon juice, olive oil, and salt and pepper. 

Dean pulled up a stool and watched Sam work. “Where’d you learn that?”

“Jess. Her cousin was a sous chef in a restaurant that specialized in fish.”

Dean nodded. “Sure you don’t want a beer?”

“I think I’ve had enough booze lately for a lifetime. I’ll take a glass of iced tea, though.”

Dean nodded - he couldn’t argue with that, and he was relieved to see Sam backing off the sauce. “Okay.”

Dean rounded the counter and retrieved a glass from the cupboard, loaded it with ice, then poured tea from a large Kool Aid pitcher.

“Wanna cook it outside, so it doesn’t stink up the house?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Sam placed the fish in a large baggie that contained the marinade, then zipped it shut and placed it in the fridge. 

“I grabbed some of those little red potatoes that you said you liked. I could steam them and dress them up a little.”

“Sounds good.”

“I think I’ll make a salad too.”

“Knock yourself out, Sammy.”

Sam smiled a little and set to work preparing the rest of their dinner. “You do realize this means you get to clean up, right?”

Dean grinned. “Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” He watched Sam work, cleaning the potatoes and getting them into a basket to steam.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever think we’d be doing this?”

“What?”

“Normal things, like making dinner and keeping house.”

“Nope. I thought those days were long gone.”

“Is this what it was like with Jess?”

Sam nodded and grinned a little. “Yeah, but without all the sex.”

Dean snorted, even as his gut flipped over at the memory of his time with the other Sam. He stood and moved to the living room, picking up the remote and turning on the television. 

Sam put the knife down and looked up at Dean, who was channel surfing.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean answered without looking up.

“I’ve got what I want too.”

Dean closed his eyes for a second and smiled. “Glad to hear it, Sammy.”

* * * *

Dean grilled the fish outside while Sam prepared the rest of their meal in the kitchen. They ate outdoors, then watched the sunset over the trees. Sam sat on the step next to Dean, who leaned back on his elbows, legs crossed at the ankles. 

Dean noticed that Sam was fidgeting, knee bobbing up and down as he picked at the treads around a hole in his jeans. Even though Sam was doing better, he was far from healed. Dean knew it would take time, lots of it, probably. All he could do was be there for Sam, when he needed him, even if that took the rest of their lives.

Sam swallowed and shifted nervously on the step. His gaze flitted from the lake to Dean - first to his bowed legs encased in soft, faded denim that was threadbare in places, then to the pale grey t-shirt that clung to his torso, to his ringed hand that swirled his beer bottle in a slow arc, to the amulet that rested against his chest, to his neck, with its fine sheen of sweat, his beard-stubbled jaw, his freckled cheeks, his eyes that were so round and full of peace after a lifetime of being on guard, then finally to his lips, relaxed, full, and damp from the beer.

He tried to imagine what it would be like to touch a man, to kiss a man, to do both to Dean. He wasn’t any good for anyone else, not anymore. No woman would ever be able to give him comfort. He couldn’t find solace or pleasure in their soft skin and yielding bodies. He needed to be grounded, safe, protected, and there was only one person on Earth that could do that.

Under the guise of changing position to get comfortable, he moved a little closer to Dean. Dean didn’t seem to respond - he stayed right where he was. 

Sam was scared. Scared of not doing anything, because he needed to do so much, and scared to do what he was thinking, because it was Dean, and while Dean would do, and had done, anything for Sam, this was . . . well, it was asking a whole lot. Maybe too much.

Slowly, he reached out and laid his hand against Dean’s, pinky to pinky. Dean didn’t move, he just raised the bottle to his lips with his other hand. Slowly, he slid his hand on top of Dean’s. Dean still didn’t move, he just lazily sipped his beer and watched the lake.

Dean’s heart was rabbiting in his chest, Sam’s large, warm paw laid over his own hand, fingers slowly curling around his hand, shoulder to shoulder now, Sam’s body heat seeping through their t-shirts and into what felt like Dean’s bones. He knew that even though Sam was doing better, he still needed this from time to time – needed to touch and be reassured, needed to be grounded in the here and now. Dean earnestly tried not to think about his other Sam and that dream-like time at the beach house, where he briefly had what he had dreamed about all his life.

Sam swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut at the tears that were threatening to betray him. He felt like he was suffocating, drowning, dying slowly, every day that he wanted what he couldn’t have. It had come on him so suddenly, aside from a few fantasies that he’d had when he was much younger. They’d spent years on the road, just the two of them, alone, always alone, and now, after all that time, he felt like if he didn’t kiss Dean right there and then, he’d die.

“Sammy?”

Dean’s voice was so quiet, deep and concerned. 

“Dean,” he whispered.

Dean put his beer down and shifted to face Sam. “What’s wrong, Sam? Is it the visions?”

“No,” Sam answered, eyes still squeezed closed, afraid to look at Dean.

“Open your eyes. Look at me, Sam.”

“I can’t.”

“It’s me, Sam. All you’re gonna see is me. I promise.”

Dean reached out and placed his hand on Sam’s jaw, turning his brother’s face toward his own. “Sammy…”

Sam reached out and wadded Dean’s t-shirt in his fist. “I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. It’s not what you think.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’m scared that . . . that I’m going to lose you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Sam.”

“You might . . . if you knew…”

“Knew what?”

Then Sam opened his eyes. 

Dean felt both his heart and his stomach flip as he looked into his brother’s gaze. He knew what he saw there, but he was afraid that he was seeing things, that this was some cruel trick. 

Sam placed his hand on Dean’s face and Dean parted his lips, a little quick inhale of breath as he trembled for a second. Despite that, Dean still looked him in the eye, his gaze reassuring. 

“It’s okay, Sam,” he said quietly. “It’s more than okay.”

“Dean?” Sam whispered, slowly, nervously closing the distance between them until their lips almost touched. “You sure?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean breathed, and then he surged forward pressing his mouth against Sam’s.

Sam didn’t hesitate or balk, rather he placed his hand on the back of Dean’s head and held him there as he opened his mouth. Dean’s tongue slid inside and he leaned forward. The step was digging into Sam’s side but he didn’t care. Dean’s warm and wet tongue was doing things he hadn’t even dreamed of, and he moaned into Dean's mouth.

Dean pulled off abruptly and grabbed Sam by the shirt, hauling him to his feet. Sam followed, allowing Dean to guide him inside. His shirt came off first, landing on the back of the sofa as they passed it, Dean’s hands all over him, gripping, holding, caressing and Sam felt himself coming apart inside. He couldn’t breathe, he trembled and shook like a little girl and he really didn’t care. It was like he was a virgin all over again and then he remembered something Dean said to him not long after he came back. 

Sam stifled a chuckle and Dean’s mouth moved to his ear. “Something funny, Sam?” he said hoarsely, fingers working the snaps on Sam’s jeans.

“I’ve been re-hymanated,” Sam said, snorting.

“Dude, you’re ruining the mood here,” Dean half-heartedly protested. He couldn’t help but smile at the first laugh he’d heard from Sam since he came back, even if it was at his expense.

“I’m sorry.” Sam regained his composure. “Seriously, I just . . . I think I finally know what you meant.”

Dean slid Sam’s jeans off his hips, as he looked him in the eye. “Feels pretty awesome, doesn’t it?”

Sam smiled. “Yeah, it does.” He reached out and pulled Dean’s shirt over his head, careful not to take the amulet with it. He stared at Dean’s chest as he placed his hands on it. He’d seen it a thousand times in his life, but it suddenly looked so different, like he’d never seen it before. He ran his hands over it, palms grazing Dean’s nipples and causing him to hiss a little. “I don’t exactly know how to do this,” he said quietly, leaning in and pressing his mouth to Dean’s chest.

Dean closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I’d say you’re doing a fine job so far.”

Sam laved Dean’s nipple with his tongue, noting the way Dean pressed into his mouth as his hands tightened on his shoulders. “Yeah?”

“Mmm, fuck, yes.”

Sam sucked the hard nub into his mouth and closed his teeth around it gently. Dean groaned as his hands moved to Sam’s lower back. 

“Naked, now,” Dean ground out, kicking his shoes off.

Sam kicked his tennis shoes and jeans off, then stepped forward, right into Dean’s grasp. 

It was late afternoon and the light of the sunset filtered into the room. The crickets were singing loudly and a soft breeze caused the plaid curtains to sway. It was like they were the only two people on earth, and that was fine with Dean. Dean pressed against Sam, knee to shoulder, his hands sliding over Sam's warm skin, over muscles that were just beginning to rebuild, over a roadmap of scars that contained their history. Sam was nuzzling his neck, his brother's warm breath fogging his skin. 

"Let's slow down," Dean said softly.

"Do you want me to stop?" Sam asked as his hands slid inside Dean's jeans and briefs to grasp his ass.

"No. I just . . . I want this to be…"

Sam pulled back and smiled. "I know," he said. "Me too." Then he leaned forward and kissed Dean slow and deep, cupping his neck, rubbing his thumb over Dean's stubbled jaw.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam whispered.

"Yeah, Sammy?" Dean answered.

"I . . . you know," Sam replied.

Dean swallowed and threaded his fingers into Sam's hair. "Yeah. Me too, Sammy. Me too."

They stretched out on the bed and were bathed in golden sunlight and Dean felt at peace for the first time in his life. If we make our own heaven and our own hell, this surely was his heaven. He had Sam safe, and while he wasn't totally healed he was on his way. All he had ever wanted or needed was Sam, and now he knew that Sam felt the same way. They had seen so much together, been through so much together and finally they were where they belonged, they were how they were supposed to be, together in the truest sense of the word.

He laid his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes as Sam mapped out his body with his hands and mouth. He thought for a moment about that other, younger Sam that he had for a while, then he said goodbye to him in his mind. He only had room in his heart for one Sam, and the one that was with him now was the one he really wanted. He mouthed a silent thanks to God before surrendering his body, heart, and soul to his brother.

~Finis

**Author's Note:**

> Something that would never happen in canon, but hey, that’s what fan fic is for, right? Title from Milton's Paradise Lost – it's a description of fallen angels. This is something that I've been working on for awhile.


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